Where Were We?
by JWood201
Summary: Gilligan discovers a few things during his performance as Scott. During "The Second Ginger Grant."


Missing scene addition for "The Second Ginger Grant." Takes place after Gilligan's infamous return to the clearing to help "MaryGin" rehearse a scene.

_I made up part of the early dialogue in the play they're rehearsing, but the latter half of the fake scene is the dialogue taken directly from the episode. This story has been sitting around unfinished for a while, so I decided to work on it during the busiest week of my summer. (I'm full of awesome ideas like that). It got away from me, as they all do, and I had to reel myself in a little bit in an attempt to make it fit the story I wanted to tell._

_Will possibly have a second chapter / epilogue._

* * *

**Where Were We?**

Gilligan had never had his head in a woman's lap before.

It wasn't somewhere he thought he'd end up when he left his hut that morning, but somehow it had come to that.

He had panicked, as usual, and fled the clearing clutching his hat. He ran straight into the Skipper, feet pedaling in mid-air as the captain held him in place and reminded him of his task.

Keep her busy. _We all want her to get well, don't we?_ Help her get well.

So Gilligan squared his shoulders, straightened his hat, and obeyed orders. He reentered the clearing and sat down next to her and laid his head in her lap. He wasn't sure what thought process led him to be in this position. Probably a lack of one, as usual. All of a sudden, there he was, gazing up at her. And she was gazing down at him through shining eyes and the back of his neck prickled where it pressed against the bare skin of her thigh.

So he blurted out a movie cliché that he thought, given the circumstances, she might appreciate.

"Where were we?"

# # # #

A few minutes later Gilligan stood on the opposite side of the clearing staring at her, eyes wide with disbelief and breathing heavily. She smiled innocently back at him.

"What's the matter?"

Gilligan shoved his hat back on top of his tousled hair. "Um. Nothing." He eyed her warily.

"Are you going to run away again? Because I really could use your help." She pulled the book back into her lap and casually flipped through the pages.

"No." Gilligan rubbed his hand across his face. "I'm supposed to keep you—." The rest of the sentence died in his throat as he winced at the red streaks on his fingers

She glanced up and grinned at him. "Keep me?" She wrinkled her nose like Ginger. "Forever?" she teased and he looked away.

"Busy. Skipper's orders," he said, pulling at his shirt to straighten it out.

"That's not very nice, Gilligan." She was pouting unconsciously, just a little bit. It was almost unnoticeable, but the sound of it in her voice pulled his head back around toward her. That was something Mary Ann did, not Ginger. Ginger manufactured her pouts on purpose, to get something she wanted, but Mary Ann's showed up without her realizing it. She never noticed them, but he always did. "The Skipper has to order you to spend time with me?"

"Yes. No! It's just ... it's to keep me out of his way. Like when he sends me to the beach with you and Gin—with you and Mary Ann." He grimaced and turned to stare into the jungle.

"Oh. I like it when you take us to the beach. You tell such good stories. And your impressions of the other men are amazing. You could be an actor."

Gilligan felt a stupid grin split his face. "You like my impressions?"

"Uh huh." She produced a tube of lipstick from somewhere and was slowly reapplying the red coloring to her lips. Gilligan felt her watching him and hastily wiped at his face, searching for any red marks he had missed. "Especially when your Mr. Howell has a tantrum and stomps his feet." She pressed her lips together to set the color and then smiled as she replaced the cap on the tube. "And you never seemed nervous about being at the beach with two beautiful girls in their swimsuits." She grinned wickedly at him. He watched as she slowly tucked the lipstick back in her leopard print top and crossed her legs, the slit in her skirt causing the fabric to fall away clear up to her thigh. "Not like you're nervous now. Gilligan, what's the matter?"

He shook his head. "Nothing." He rubbed at the back of his neck. It still felt hot.

She shrugged and picked up her book again. "Well, like I said, I'm glad you're here. I need to work on this and it's so hard without someone to play Scott." She stood and approached him, the open book held out before her. Gilligan took a tiny step back. "Acting is all about reacting. Scenes like this rely on interaction. Chemistry." She stepped up close to him and pressed the open book against his chest, holding it between them. "We have good chemistry, don't we, Gilligan?"

"I ... I don't know a lot about science."

She laughed and Gilligan frowned. It was a manufactured laugh, not the freewheeling musical laughs that Gilligan loved to hear floating up from Mary Ann's beach towel when he was mid-story.

"Well, luckily for you neither does Scott." She took a step back, holding the open book to his chest until he reached up to take it before it fell. "It'll be fun, Gilligan, I promise. It'll be just like when we go to the beach. You just have to do an impression of Scott."

Gilligan narrowed one eye at her and fixed her with a suspicious look. "I don't know how to do an impression of Scott. I don't know him."

"Read your lines and you will." She pulled the top of the book down until the page was staring up at him, black typeface blurring together on the white page. She stood on her toes and peered over the top of the book, reading upside down and flipping pages until she found the scene she wanted. He stared down at the top of her head and her hair tickled his chin. It smelled like homemade mango shampoo. "Start here. At the beginning." She stepped back and pointed at a passage with a perfectly manicured nail. "I already know all my lines. Don't be nervous, you'll be great. The beginning is funny."

Gilligan glanced up from the book. "I thought Scott was unfriendly?"

"It's your job as the actor to figure out why he's being that way. He might be unfriendly sometimes, but –." She hesitated for a moment. "But … deep down I think he loves me. Just like I love him."

"You mean he loves Margo," he said, consulting the character list on the title page – it was just the two of them in the entire play.

"I am Margo. Just like you're Scott." She reached out and tugged on the front of his shirt playfully. "And you love me, don't you?" She watched him hopefully for a second, then the teasing glint returned to her eye. Before he could react, she forced a laugh and patted his stomach affectionately. Then she turned and sauntered back to the bamboo lounge chair. She perched on the edge, more like an audience member than a scene partner, and fixed him with an expectant grin. "You have the first line, Gilligan."

# # # #

"Listen, baby, I had a hard day at work and I don't want to come home and listen to your lady problems." Gilligan was strutting around the clearing, chest out, hat down low over one eye, the book of plays open across one palm. "I just want to put my feet up and have a beer and then go play cards with the guys. We don't need you broads tellin' us what to do all the time. Now go make me a chocolate covered hamburger!"

"Gilligan!" She stepped into his path and planted her hands on her hips. "That's not in the script! Stop turning Scott into a male chauvinist." She tried to glare at him, but the side of her mouth kept twitching with the threat of laughter.

"How can I do that when I don't even know what that is?"

"You can't just make up lines."

Gilligan puffed his chest out some more. "Sorry, baby. Making all the money is hard on a guy, what with being a rocket scientist and all. Now, if you make me a chocolate covered hamburger, I'll buy you a brand new pair of pantyhose."

"Gilligan!" she yelled, but she burst out laughing. "Stop improvising!"

Gilligan's character fell away and he grinned. There was the laugh he had been missing over the past few days. It snuck out, unattended, when she was unprepared. "See, you think I'm making it better!"

"Not _improving_, improvising! It means you're making it up." She flipped a page back in the book. "Now start again from here. You're ruining my concentration."

Gilligan pouted. "Sorry." Gilligan pushed his hat back into its proper place on his head. "It's just that Gin – that you never do boyfriend-girlfriend stuff like this. You usually sing songs and act like trees."

"Well, I'm trying something new. Now that you're here to help me." She grinned up at him. "Now, start again."

"Okay." A little shamed, he turned and retreated a few steps. He kept his back to her for a long moment and peered down into the book.

When he turned around again, something had changed. He was concentrating hard. He looked so earnest. "Listen, baby," he began again, voice low. He took a step toward her. "I had a hard day at work and I don't want to come home and listen to your lady problems." He sounded so apologetic. So sincere. "Pick out whatever curtains you want. I don't care. I'm sure they'll look great." He smiled.

She stared up at him in amazement, eyes wide. This was completely opposite to how she assumed the scene was usually played. The first instinct was usually anger, resentment, Scott being a giant pain in the butt, wanting his own life and nothing to do with her problems – at least that's how she had read it – but Gilligan was redeeming him already. Gilligan was taking the words and making them his own. He made Scott human, relatable, and, daresay, almost lovable.

She swallowed hard. He was staring at her, waiting for her to say her next line. "Okay," she finally whispered.

Gilligan grinned. "Now who's impoverishing? That's not your line. You're supposed to say, 'Darn it, Scott, you need to talk to me! This is your home, too!'" Gilligan squirmed. "Only she doesn't say 'darn it.'"

She blinked rapidly and settled a benign smile on her face again. "Sorry. Give me the line again."

Gilligan glanced down into the book and then looked into her eyes, instantly in character, his own sincere version of Scott, and something inside her hitched. "I'm sure they'll look great," he repeated, smiling.

She took a deep breath. "Scott ... Scott, why don't you talk to me? This is your home, too. You've lived here for three years." She reached out tentatively, her hand hovering in the space between them. "We've lived together for three years and I don't know how you feel. About anything. About life or curtains or – or me."

Gilligan pulled his gaze away and paced across the clearing. "I just had a rough day at work," he read.

"I don't like the way your boss yells at you," she replied, following. "He's like a drill sergeant." She watched as Gilligan paced in a tight circle, eyes fixed to the page. He had so much energy coursing through his body, pulling him in circles, focusing him toward Scott's being. He wasn't even trying any more. He didn't know how. He didn't think he knew how to act, but he never felt this way when he was doing his impressions. He didn't feel like someone else. "Do you like my dress?" she finally asked, quietly, trying a different tack. "I borrowed it from Ginny. She has such lovely clothes."

Gilligan looked up. She was looking down at her hands smoothing out her leopard print skirt. He closed the space between them in two strides and she looked up in surprise. "Why do you want to be like her?"

"I – I ..."

She froze as Gilligan took one more step toward her and his knees grazed her skirt. He peered down into her face. "I like you just the way you are."

Her eyes widened. She began tilting backward so she took hold of his arm to keep upright. The soft cotton of his shirt brushed her bare midriff. "You do?"

Gilligan gulped. "Um." He raised the book and peered over her shoulder to scan the lines of text. He turned the page and found his place. He cleared his throat. "Sure."

"Oh, Scott," she breathed and he backed up, burying his nose in the book.

"You know I'm no good at this stuff, Margo. I'm just a normal guy," he read quickly, his Scott persona quickly disintegrating. He was nervous now and getting self-conscious. "I go to work and it's not great, but then I come home and just want to relax and maybe go out with the guys. I don't know how to talk about things. I need space, but I don't know what you need. I don't say much. You talk all the time, but you never say anything. _What do you need?_"

Gilligan looked up when he finished and froze. She was staring at him, more open and vulnerable than he'd ever seen her. She had one arm wrapped lightly around her middle. Her other hand was resting over her heart as if to quell its pain or to hold it inside her body. She looked so unsure. He didn't want to say anything stupid if she was having doubts about her identity. He didn't want to be the one responsible for prolonging her delusion if she was on her way back. They watched each other for a long time until he couldn't take the silence any more.

"What – what do you need?" he repeated gently and she looked down into the grass. He tentatively held the book out to her in case she had forgotten her line.

"I just need someone to love me," she whispered finally and his arm lowered. "I need someone to kiss me." Gilligan remembered this dialogue from when he first arrived at the clearing, hiding behind a clump of plants before being unceremoniously dragged into the act. Now, however, he was riveted. She took a step toward him, looking utterly and completely lost. She wasn't even looking at him. "I need someone to want me." She raised her head and searched his eyes. "I need you."

She slid her arms around his middle and buried her face in his red shirt. Gilligan wasn't sure what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn't this. She clung to him like a desperately lonely child, like an orphan, like a heartbroken woman, or like all three. He lifted the book up behind her and scanned the page. She had said all the right lines, lines that were written for this character by a complete stranger, but it had felt so real. He believed her. He absolutely believed her and that terrified and fascinated him. He wanted to run away, but then again he didn't. _We all want her to get well, don't we?_

Gilligan felt her grab handfuls of his shirt and he relaxed his arms around her shoulders. When Mary Ann became herself again, he was going to tell her she should become an actress. Mary Ann never seemed sad like this in real life, but if she just performed those lines so well, she must have it inside her. She must be able to access those feelings and relate the words to some yearning that she holds.

Gilligan wasn't sure if she was going to continue with the scene or what was going to happen next, but he knew he wasn't going to be the one to make that decision. He wasn't going to push her away and flee when he was beginning to see the cracks in her illusion. He wasn't going to be the one responsible for a relapse or a delay in her recovery. Something in this scene was getting to her. She had picked it for a reason and as much as he didn't want to admit it, he was beginning to suspect what it was.

Gilligan wasn't sure how long they had been standing there in silence when he felt her hold on his shirt relax and her hands flatten against his back. "Please, Scott," she whispered, "don't go out tonight." She backed up enough to look up at him and slid her hands around his sides and up over his shirt. "Stay here with me." She linked her arms around his neck and he began squirming. "We're all alone. And there's a fire." She kissed his cheek gently. "Soft music. You can have anything you want." She laid her head on his shoulder and nuzzled his neck.

"Um." He swallowed hard and raised the book to look for his next line. He willed the words to appear in the newly cleared space in his throat before it closed up again. "I –."

"What do you want?" she asked, her lips brushing his neck. A warm rush of air slid down his back and made him shiver. He didn't know what he wanted. He wanted to run away. He wanted to stay there. He wanted to do something very out of character. He wanted to do nothing. He wanted a time machine. He didn't know what the best course of action was, which would be the healthiest for her and the safest for him.

"When –," he squeaked and cleared his throat, "When are you going to realize that I've got important things to do," he read flatly, gently untangling her arms from around his neck and pushing her away, "and you don't fit into my plans." He backed up and hit the bamboo lounge chair, plopping down onto the seat with a thud. He glanced back at the script. "_Baby_," he finished the line with a faint smile, somehow trying to soften the previous rejection. He hoped that this abrupt negative turn wouldn't somehow push Mary Ann deeper into her fantasy.

Why did Scott say that anyway? Gilligan somehow knew that Scott didn't mean it to be forever, just for that night, the night he wanted to spend with his friends after a long day at work. He knew that deep down she was right and that deep down he loved her, he just couldn't admit it at that moment. Maybe he was scared. Gilligan understood fear.

In all his worry about Mary Ann's reaction, Gilligan had totally forgotten what came next in the scene. Before he realized what was happening, she was kneeling behind him on the lounge chair, her arms linked around him again. "You don't mean that," she whispered in his ear, her nose brushing his temple. "You're my life. When I'm with you my temperature rises." She leaned against his back and her hands began exploring his shirt as she spoke. "Flames leap up around me. Smoke fills the air." Her finger accidentally brushed his belt through his shirt and he tensed. "I'm on fire." His toes curled in his sneakers, ready to grip the ground in case he needed to take off and escape.

When he had returned to the clearing his plan was simple: sit still, let her rehearse the scene, don't say much, and distract her until dinner time. It seemed easy enough, but just as all his plans seemed to go awry, this was no exception. He didn't even do anything wrong this time. At least, he didn't think he did. Not yet, at least.

"Gilligan?"

Something in her tone made him whip his head around and he realized suddenly that she had backed away from him. She was sitting on the bamboo lounge chair with her knees bent, hugging her legs. He quickly slid across the chair and turned to search her face. She looked up at him through familiar giant eyes, confusion and defeat having quickly taken up residence there.

"Mary Ann?"

The confusion on her brow deepened and she cocked her head slightly. She smiled brightly at him. "You have the next line, I think." Gilligan's own hopeful smile slid off his face and he lowered his head to reference the book. Meanwhile, she untangled her arms from around her knees and scooted closer to him. "I say, 'I'm on fire,'" she reminded him and he winced. She tugged on the front of his shirt. "And what do you say?"

Gilligan finally found his place in the book and read his next line. He screwed his face up in embarrassment and felt his ears getting hot. He cracked one eye open and peered up at her. "Me, too."

She laughed and pat his cheek. "Keep going," she advised, sitting back in the lounge chair.

"There aren't any lines. Just a paragraph in parenthesis."

"They're stage directions. They tell you what you're supposed to do next."

"Oh. Okay." Gilligan bent his head, his lips moving silently as he read to himself. Halfway through the second sentence he stopped reading along and his mouth fell open. Another sentence later his head snapped up and he stared at her. "Mar– I – But I –."

"We've done this part before, but you have to do it as written this time."

"I can't! I –!"

"You're supposed to help me rehearse. Don't you want me to get better?"

He sputtered to a stop and stared at her. She was watching him expectantly, with that daring look in her eye. He half expected her to shove her hands onto her hips and admonish him for eating the pie she made for dessert. He wanted nothing more at that moment than for her to yell at him for eating the pie she made for dessert. But of course he knew she wouldn't.

"More than anything," he replied and she beamed at him.

"Oh, Gilligan, you're wonderful," she said in a way that he hadn't heard in nearly two years and it made his chest ache.

The stage directions left little to the imagination. Apparently Scott wasn't that unfriendly after all. Gilligan wasn't planning on worrying about the very descriptive adjectives and adverbs that she had been so keen on adhering to earlier, the ones that had sent him sprinting from the clearing the first time. The word "passionately" was one in particular that struck fear into his heart and butterflies into his stomach.

"Gilligan, come on." She was watching him evenly.

"Can't we just skip ahead?"

"You're slowing down the whole pacing of the play. It's very important."

"But I don't –."

"Gilligan!"

He squeezed his eyes shut and immediately lowered his lips to hers. As soon as he did, his fear evaporated. It was totally different from the first time she tried to initiate this scene. He wasn't scared at all.

It reminded him of the time they had to pretend to be in love so Duke would leave Mary Ann alone. Of course he would've done anything to help her, just like in this situation, so he didn't even try to escape once. She was a little more forward about it, but not even halfway through their act he found himself kissing her back. Even after he messed up and buzzed like a bee, he apologized and gently took her face in his hands and kissed her all by himself with no one telling him to and when she sighed and grabbed onto his shirt a few moments later, Duke finally muffled a curse and crashed away through the jungle.

This felt just like that. Except she thought she was someone else. Maybe this would remind her of the Duke incident too and trigger something in her brain. Her hands were on his face and in his hair and he moved one of his hands down to her side, feeling her soft skin and the bumps of her ribs beneath. The arm propping him up over her was starting to hurt so he lowered himself onto his elbow and his hand plunged into the mass of dark hair spread out around her head. He was trying to remember what the script said happened next when she made a noise.

"Gilligan?" she murmured and his head shot up. He stared down at her, wide-eyed, and when she finally opened her own eyes they looked different. She blinked a few times and studied him for a long moment.

He gulped. "Mary Ann?" he asked hopefully. She smiled a little and when she turned her head her cheek pressed into the hand that was still tangled in her hair. He began to laugh gratefully and was about to gather her into his arms and hug her when her brow furrowed curiously. She averted her eyes, thinking furiously. She released her grip on his collar and raised both hands to cover her face.

He backed off of her and pulled his hands away from her. He watched her as she leaned back on the lounge chair, frozen, hiding behind her hands. He sat on the edge of the chair and fixed his hat on his head. He took a deep breath and clutched the edge of the bamboo seat.

"Please, Scott, look at me," she said suddenly. Gilligan glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. That was all he could muster. She looked so small, curled up in the corner of the lounge chair. Small and unsure and confused – and sick.

"Don't you know?" She sighed and turned away. "Don't you know I'm yours forever?" she quietly asked the trees.

Gilligan stared into the jungle in the opposite direction. "Yeah. I know."


End file.
